Hide and Go Seek
by Lady Sam Mallory
Summary: Sherlock and Lestrade must race against the clock, literally, to save John from a madman. COMPLETE.


**Hide and Go Seek**

**Author:** Lady Sam Mallory

**Disclaimers:** Boys not mine; I just borrow them from time to time when the muse moves me.

**Special Thanks to:** My Beta Queen, Zoe, without whom I'd be doomed to a life of grammatical inaccuracy. For my beautiful friend, Heather, whose incredible command of the English language allows her to provide me with individually needed words at a moment's notice.

**Warnings:** H/C, Angst, Smarm, Some violence, and usually a bit of colorful language.

**Spoilers:** Teeniest Tiniest One for "A Study in Pink"

**Author's Comments: **There is quite a bit of medical technobabble, but it should all be fairly easy to understand from the context. I did take a touch of liberty with the IV pump having a 72-hour timer on it, but hopefully this will not offend too many of you.

* * *

"Just relax. Everything's fine," the rich baritone voice soothes as he feels pulling at his left side.

"W…Wait…w-what?" John stutters, struggling to understand what's happening to him. John tries to turn his head, but the heaviness of his body prevents the movement.

"Stay still," the doctor orders as he starts to fade once again.

John endeavors to keep his eyes open. "Sh-Sherlock?" He slurs, eyes fluttering as even the pain cannot keep him from losing the battle with consciousness.

The doctor finishes the procedure, only 102 minutes, and smiles at his timeliness. He thought perhaps he had lost his touch but is pleased to see that he has not. The internal drug pump has been sutured subdermally and should deliver the set amount of adrenaline every 12 hours as programmed.

He then adjusts the four IV lines, three peripheral and one central line, coming from the two Alaris Pump Modules above the patient's head. These connect to four individual cannulas: one in John's left arm, one in the back of his right hand, one in his right arm and the final on the left side of his neck.

He checks the infusion rates on each to make sure they are adequate then checks the timer on the final two lines. He has filled the peripheral lines in the patient's arms with saline and a medication injector that will auto depress when the 72 hours are up.

The first injector includes a barbiturate with pancuronium bromide, a paralytic. The second injector is filled with potassium chloride which will induce cardiac arrest. These are the drugs used in lethal injection executions. The good doctor must trade his life for the one that was taken from him.

Checking the IV fluid levels, he places fresh saline bags in the pump and checks that the catheter is taped down and that fluid outputs are adequate. He was a doctor, after all.

He rechecks the lines carefully as his plan hinges on these working appropriately. Casting his gaze over the entire setup, he smiles darkly and takes his leave.

* * *

**Three hours earlier…**

John trudges to the door of 221B Baker Street, exhausted after a double shift at the surgery, which had been preceded by an all night chase across London.

The good news-they caught the murderer. Between John's keen eye in seeing the possible delivery system for the poison and Sherlock's quick deductions, they aced it. Unfortunately, not before they were forced to race all over London looking for the murderous bastard.

Opening the door, he looks up the stairs with disdain, if not outright disgust.

His legs feel heavy as he drags himself up the stairs to the flat, opening the door quickly so as to get a spot of tea and drop into bed without pause.

John's plans shatter to distant memory when a fist strikes him in the right cheek as he comes through the door.

His right fist connects with a very solid jaw before he even realizes that his instincts have kicked in. "Bloody hell," he curses as he brings his left fist in to finish the bloke off.

A sudden disruption in the air behind him tells him that this bastard's not alone. He performs a maiming back kick to the second intruder's sternum. John smiles satisfactorily when he hears the resounding crack of a few ribs and a pained grunt telling him the intruder is out of commission for now.

He backhands the first masked man again, caught nearly unaware as the arm of a third attacker draws across his throat.

Choking in an effort to establish breathing again, he steps back into his attacker trying to break the chokehold, while simultaneously striking with his left elbow a direct blow to the solar plexus causing them both to crash to the floor through the coffee table.

John gasps as his already limited air expels from his lungs at the forceful landing. Turning to his left side, he tries to stand when a sharp pain in his upper back knocks him to the floor.

Lying there, he realizes that he cannot move at all.

"Fu…" he slurs as his body collapses further, his limbs heavy, and his agile brain processes that he's been dosed with a paralytic.

A fourth adversary with a tranquilizer gun steps from the corner where Sherlock keeps his violin.

"You can say that again," the man holding the gun agrees wholeheartedly, "I wondered why he sent four of us."

John smiles slightly with only one thought in mind.

_Sherlock is going to fucking kill them if they broke the Strad._

* * *

_Come to the flat at once _

_John kidnapped_

_Call NO ONE!_

_Don't dawdle_

_SH_

Lestrade rereads the text twice more. He'd pulled the car over to read it. Swearing, he cranks the wheel sharply, turns the sedan around and heads toward Baker Street.

"Bastards, I was looking forward to getting home," he scowls, flipping the switch for the sirens as well.

Arriving at his destination, the brakes screech as he loosely parks the vehicle before leaping out and racing up the stairs.

Lestrade bursts through the door, gun at the ready, his face transforms to shock at what he finds.

"Really, Lestrade. I did use the past tense," Sherlock condescends from his crouched position on the floor next to piles of papers and broken wood from the coffee table.

Lestrade holsters his weapon. "Look, it's been a long day. What the hell happened here?" He demands, taking small comfort in the fact that at least, given the recipient of the question, he can expect a clear answer.

"Obviously, a scuffle," Sherlock, replies his brows knit in concern.

Lestrade closes his eyes and counts to ten quickly to save time John may not have. "I can _see_ that, Sherlock. Anything else you care to add? Something helpful would be truly appreciated," he reminds the detective when he opens his mouth to speak.

"I received a text from John stating that it was urgent that I return to the flat at once. As he is not prone to exaggeration, I heeded the summons only to find the flat in disarray and John missing. His mobile, however, is right here," Sherlock explains holding up the mobile as he continues surveying the scene.

"Four men attacked John, three in close quarters, one from over here," he gestures to the corner where his violin stands undisturbed.

"One man waited here at the door. He punched John in the jaw as he came in the door, hence the blood spatter on the outside of the door. A second attacker waited here, in case he was needed. He landed here and slid across the floor a few feet, hence the rug displacement. Probably a back kick, he'll have broken ribs," Sherlock informs Lestrade, who writes it down in his PNB as he continues to move around the room, painting a very vivid picture of exactly what John faced upon his return to the flat.

Lestrade takes in the evidence, his eyes darting about the lounge. He whistles lowly. "Four of them?" He verifies under his breath.

Sherlock nods, "Precisely, the third intruder came in from the kitchen and put John in a chokehold. See here, John's feet drag a bit before becoming solid, stepping back here, and they both crash to the floor breaking the coffee table. The fourth man stands here, uses probably some kind of tranquilizer gun to disable John. They then left with him. Thus John's been kidnapped. We're wasting time, Lestrade," Sherlock complains, draws his hands together in front of him.

Lestrade stills the agitated detective by placing his hands on the taller man's shoulders. "If I'm going to help, I need to catch up," Lestrade informs him gently.

Sherlock nods distractedly handing Lestrade the note he found tacked to the back of the door with a kitchen knife while simultaneously reciting it word for word excluding the rules.

"Sherlock, hope this little note finds you well. I have taken the liberty of removing Dr. Watson to another location while I await your brilliant use of deduction to find him. You have 72 hours. He will remain relatively unharmed as long as you play the game. The game is Hide and Go Seek. You will follow all the rules set forth below, or Dr. John Watson will die most painfully," Sherlock recites in a clipped voice.

Lestrade looks over the note carefully. "We need to call in the team," he says finally causing Sherlock to explode in a fantastic display of fireworks.

"The Rules, Lestrade, are quite simple and failure to follow them will result in John being killed. That will NOT happen," Sherlock warns the Detective Inspector, his blue eyes flashing with barely suppressed rage.

Sherlock ticks off each rule as he informs Lestrade of them. "Rule number one: I may call one person to help me. I chose you. Please do not tell me that I chose in error?" He asks fixing his intense stare upon the silver haired inspector.

"Rule number two: I will receive visual verification that John is alive and safe once every twelve hours if I follow instructions," Sherlock says as he taps his middle finger.

Lestrade shakes his head. "Rule number three is unacceptable, Sherlock," he hisses clutching Sherlock's arm in his hand.

"Matters not," Sherlock replies firmly, staring down into the contents of the open package he has laid out on his desk.

"Like bloody hell it doesn't matter, Sherlock. He expects you to inject yourself with God knows what…" Lestrade yells trying to make an impression on the reckless young man before him.

"Really, Lestrade? It's clearly sealed and labeled as adrenaline. One shot every twelve hours, and let's be honest, it's not the worst thing I've injected into myself," Sherlock reminds him, stabbing his right thigh with one of the auto injectors and closing his eyes while the adrenaline courses through his system putting everything on high alert.

"Why adrenaline? Obviously, he doesn't realize that you never sleep on a case anyway?" Lestrade asks plaintively.

Sherlock shrugs minutely. "It's not to keep me from sleeping, Lestrade. A jolt of adrenaline activates the fight or flight response. It's to keep me agitated and decrease my ability to function logically," he informs the Detective Inspector.

Lestrade shakes his head as he reaches for the package. Sherlock pries it away and places the watch within on his left wrist in replacement of his own. Lestrade looks at the face of it seeing that it is a digital timer counting down.

"Seventy-one hours and twenty- nine minutes. I've deduced that there is nothing particularly unique about the note, neither the paper nor the printer. However, there is a smudge on the paper that I was attempting to identify when I texted you, as well as the other evidence samples that I have gathered," Sherlock says as he strides into the kitchen to collect all the evidence bags and transport them to his lab at St. Bart's.

* * *

John moans as the pain washes over him yet again. He forces his eyes open and looks around. The room is white with no windows and a single break in the wall that marks the doorway.

He tries to sit only to realize that he will not be going anywhere. He wears conventional hospital restraints and his fear overrides his confusion for the moment.

Think, John. Calm down and figure out what's going on.

"Got nothing," he replies to his internal dialogue, giving a mental shrug as his body quakes uncontrollably.

"What do you remember?" he whispers to himself trying to put the pieces together.

"Attack at the flat. Obviously, I lost that one," he jests sarcastically wondering where in the bloody hell he really is.

_Gather information, John. _

"I have IV's in both arms, my hand and my neck. God, I _hate_ central lines," he complains as he stretches trying to discern the pharmaceuticals being used in both lines. He closes his eyes with a gasp as he realizes that there's additional pain in his left side. He shifts his body carefully to the right and feels the pull of stitches there.

"Shit," he curses, wondering once again what the bloody hell is going on. Using his left hand, he skillfully palpates the area he can reach within the restraints. He tentatively shifts again increasing his pain significantly. "Not good, John," he laughs, rolling his eyes at his own comments, "Quite an understatement."

John feels nauseous, as his system seems to flood with panic. Closing his eyes, he reigns in the undeniable fear as much as he is able. He didn't feel this much horror in the middle of a war zone in Afghanistan.

_Something's definitely not right here._

* * *

Sherlock looks at the results once again. "This can't be bloody right, but I've run it three times," Sherlock hisses irritated at the irrefutable proof before him and tossing the results down on the table in front of him.

Lestrade steps forward, "What?"

Sherlock's brows draw together in consternation. "It makes absolutely no sense. None," he reiterates, trying to analyze the results and obtain a different result, the very definition of insanity.

Lestrade clamps a hand down on Sherlock's shoulder, "Stop ranting and tell me what you've found, for God's sake."

Sherlock blows out a frustrated breath, trying to bring his adrenaline-laden body back under control. He manages to calm down slightly, but the tremors continue to play through him. "The smudge is an amalgam of salt water with a salinity of 35 PSU, a compound chemical called potassium permanganate and blood," Sherlock rattles off quickly, obviously agitated.

He looks to Lestrade only to see the man has no idea why these findings make absolutely no sense.

"Don't be an idiot, Lestrade. These things are not found together normally. It is a deliberate clue," Sherlock snaps still researching on his laptop to tie these various elements together.

"Anything you need me to do?" Lestrade asks coming round the end of the table.

"Stop moving. I typed the blood, O+, but am still waiting on the DNA test to come up," Sherlock scowls.

"So what about the potassium perm stuff? Wouldn't that be pretty easy to find?" Lestrade asks as Molly enters the lab.

"No, it has literally dozens of applications," Sherlock answers in clipped tones. "Molly, you need to go out. This is a delicate experiment that _must_ not be contaminated."

She gives him an odd look but heads out of the lab. "I just needed to grab the enterotome you pinched from the morgue," she snaps grabbing up a large pair of odd-looking silver scissors. "If you return these things, I don't have to come collect them, Sherlock.

"Detective Inspector," she addresses Lestrade as she heads toward the door.

"Molly," Lestrade greets, his eyes never leaving the scissors.

"Can't possibly open the alimentary canal without these," she muses as she opens the door. "Please do make an effort to return my equipment, Sherlock."

"Hmmm…" Sherlock responds as she heads out the door.

Lestrade pushes his right hand through silver hair. "She wants you to return the things you borrow," he repeats for Sherlock's benefit.

"No time for nonsense, Lestrade," he reminds, looking down at the timer counting down, "None at all."

"How much time left?" Lestrade asks quietly.

"Sixty hours," Sherlock replies, his jaw tight, just as he receives a video to his laptop.

* * *

Lestrade holds his breath as Sherlock accesses the video. Upon seeing John, every molecule of air disperses explosively.

"Jesus," he hisses upon seeing his friend strapped down to a stretcher and hooked up to machines with various lines covering his body.

Sherlock closes his eyes. "There are four IV lines, two are saline if they have not been tampered with, but the configuration closely resembles the setup for…lethal injection," he reports as he rubs a shaking hand over his face and pulls it through his dark curls.

"How can you be so clinical, Sherlock?" Lestrade demands disgustedly.

Sherlock fixes an intensely dark stare on the Detective Inspector. "Quite simple, actually. If I do not divorce myself from the emotions threatening me at this time, you will be arresting me for murder and John will die," he announces without any hesitation.

Lestrade nods understandingly, "Okay, What else?"

"He is manacled, but the restraints are hospital grade, as is all the equipment in the room. He's wearing a standard hospital gown. The room is white with no visible windows or doors. Could be anywhere," Sherlock says, a bit disappointed that he could not get more from the room.

"What's with the needle in his neck?" Lestrade asks his face contorted with disgust.

"John once told me that they do that when they want the medication to work more quickly," Sherlock relays, searching the video for additional clues.

"He's awake; his respiration rate is 32, which is much too high for him to be unconscious," Sherlock notes, his eyes vibrating back and forth to pick up whatever else is there.

"He's awake for this? Are you sure?" Lestrade asks as John opens his eyes, "Right, then. Awake."

"He's in considerable pain," Sherlock whispers, clutching his hand tightly into a fist, as he watches John mumble, asking for Sherlock and then cough, groaning his dissatisfaction with his predicament.

Lestrade places a supporting hand on Sherlock's shoulder and leans forward to determine what John's saying as his lips move, but no sound comes out, "What's he on about?"

Sherlock's fingers deftly type in the few words he garnered while reading John's lips into Google. "The muscles of the neck," Sherlock informs the older detective who nods understandingly.

Sherlock pulls out the next adrenaline dose and pushes it into his left thigh as Lestrade looks away. He throws the auto injector across the lab then swipes an empty test tube rack off the edge of the table his blue eyes never once leaving the video.

"I'll find you, John," Sherlock promises, his eyes taking in details three times as fast as the average individual.

Then the screen goes dark.

* * *

John groans as he tries to shift position yet again. He wishes that he could see anything other than white, although he suspects there is nothing more to see.

"Come on, Sherlock," he whispers through clenched teeth, his body beginning to shake with the effort of breathing.

John coughs eliciting another moan. He rolls his head slightly from side to side, mindful of his central line, attempting to stretch out the tight muscles of his neck. Trying not to go insane, he begins to recite the anatomy of the neck in his mind, his mouth moving in time with the recitations.

**Sternocleidomastoid** muscle originates at manubrium and medial clavicle and attaches to the mastoid process of the temporal bone and the superior nuchal line.

_**Longus Colli** muscle originates at the transverse processes of C-3 through C-6 and attaches to the inferior surface of the occipital bone. _

_**Longus Capitus** muscle…_

He breaks off as his body wracks with nearly unbearable pain. Gasping, but working actively not to hyperventilate, he attempts to calm his breathing.

John, breathe, you stupid wanker!

John blows out several breaths and cries out slightly when his stomach muscles clench in retaliation to being in this position for so long. With his watch gone and the bout of unconsciousness, he has no idea how long he has been here.

He continues the inventory from earlier.

"Start small," he reminds himself, his throat parched. He wishes not for the first time that he had water. He would rip the whiskers off a kitten for water right now.

"You're an awful person, John. A kitten, seriously?" John mutters, laughing at the absurdity of his thoughts.

Think John! Remember, start small.

He huffs out a shaky breath and flexes his feet and toes. He is pleased when he feels discomfort more than actual pain.

He moves up a bit, trying to bend his knees, hoping to remove pressure from his lower back; however, the pain that shoots through his back at the increase in pressure causes him to reconsider and drop his legs down again.

He breathes through the nausea and gags once. Concerned that he will aspirate on his own vomit while supine on his back, he rolls as much as he is able to his left side. The movement, guarded because of the stitches, makes him retch.

"Shit," he curses and forces his mind to stop racing, his body to stop reacting. The sudden calming curbs his need to vomit for now; and he drops his head slightly, ever mindful of the bloody needle in his neck, and spends the next few minutes just breathing.

"I know I've asked before, but, God, please let me live," John gasps curling up as much as he is able with the restraints.

* * *

"DNA profile's up from the blood sample. I'm running it against the UK DNA Database for possible matches," Sherlock informs Lestrade as he returns with two cups of coffee and a couple of sandwiches.

"Right," Lestrade starts before realization dawns, "Wait a minute! How did you gain access to…?"

Sherlock looks at him in amusement before rolling his eyes dramatically. "A toddler could break into the database with appropriate motivation or boredom. It's a fairly simplistic encryption algorithm," he explains, his exhaustion softening his tone more than usual.

Lestrade nods, "Course. Should have known. Sandwich?"

"I do not have time for food when on a case, Lestrade," Sherlock informs him tightly, his fingers dancing across the laptop keys.

"You should eat," Lestrade tries with quiet tenacity.

Sherlock ignores him, his body never turning from the laptop and punches another injection into his leg absently.

Lestrade rolls his eyes. "Especially since you've been injecting that crap for the past 36 hours," Lestrade reminds the stubborn consulting detective.

"It's time," Sherlock announces as he pulls up the next video as the alert sounds.

Lestrade closes his eyes and nods affirmatively as he makes his way over to the laptop.

The video begins to play, and he is brought up short by the man he sees lying there. John moans and gasps words to the empty room as before, but everything has changed.

Both men notice that his agitation has increased ten-fold and that he's not making any sense.

"Sh'lock…on case…murder…solve…" John mutters between gasps of wheezing breath.

Sherlock and Lestrade glance at each other worriedly.

"What's he on about?" Lestrade demands, his temper flaring at seeing his friend so vulnerable.

Sherlock covers his face with both hands. "He's been lying in the same position for 36 hours, Lestrade, with no stimulus and apparently," Sherlock gestures to the video, "no human interaction as well."

John starts to yell hoarsely. Nonsense words that have absolutely no meaning echo off the walls of the sterile white room.

"He's gone 'round the bend," Lestrade whispers, pulling at his neck, his eyes shift away from the disturbing vision before him.

Sherlock grabs Lestrade by the collar pulling him close into his space. "Don't _ever_ say that! John is strong. We'll get him back," Sherlock hisses through clenched teeth, mere inches from Lestrade's face, his eyes glassy with emotion and weariness.

The screen goes dark and Sherlock turns back to his work as though the altercation never occurred.

Lestrade supposes that Sherlock will delete it at his earliest convenience.

He turns to walk away, just now realizing that he's clutching Sherlock's sandwich in his hand.

Not for the first time, Lestrade wishes he understood Sherlock just a fraction as well as John. He's known the man for nearly seven years, and he's no closer to figuring it out.

Exhaling slowly, pressing the fingers of his left hand into the throbbing at his temple, he deliberates on the friendship that his two extraordinary friends have.

The Detective Inspector wonders for the thousandth time how John manages the stubborn git without popping him one. He then sees John's jumper hanging on a hook near the laboratory door. It seems out of place, as does the cot that he's just observed in the corner.

"That's new," Lestrade notices as he points to the cot as well as the jumper.

"For John," Sherlock states plainly as if no further explanation is needed, his eyes never straying from his work.

Lestrade realizes that he really doesn't require further explanation. John would require a place to rest, and the lab gets fairly cold when Sherlock works through the night. Logic would dictate that Sherlock would provide these things for his friend. He smiles at the thought of John kipping on the cot and hopes he will have the opportunity to see that for himself.

As he contemplates past interactions between John and Sherlock and their unique friendship, he smiles fondly, suddenly struck with an idea. He had seen it so many times, yet it had never occurred to him what was taking place. That sneaky bastard.

Taking a cue from his absent friend, he places the unwrapped sandwich next to the coffee just to the right of Sherlock's laptop. Several minutes later, Sherlock, unbeknownst even to himself, begins to eat the sandwich as he works.

Lestrade's smile increases exponentially. Sneaky bastard, indeed.

* * *

"Computer found a profile," Sherlock announces as he makes his way to the lab's computer that has just sounded the alert. He hits print before he even takes a look.

"Grab that!" Sherlock demands of the impatient Detective Inspector pacing back and forth across the lab, "And do stop that infernal pacing! I'm trying to think."

Lestrade grabs the paper and glances down at it before cursing a blue streak.

"Must have been contaminated," he declares as he passes the results to Sherlock.

Sherlock rips the paper from Lestrade's grasp to view the results for himself.

"There was no contamination. Mrs. Hudson's been away to see her sister. She was supposed to return this morning," Sherlock informs him, peeking at the timer once again.

"How much?" Lestrade asks, not sure he wants the answer and more exhausted than he can ever remember being.

"Twenty-eight hours. Come Lestrade, we must go see Mrs. Hudson," he beckons as he folds down the laptop and brings it along.

Lestrade pretends not to notice the shaking in Sherlock's hands.

* * *

John worries at the bindings on his wrists, his skin there rubbed raw from the near constant motion.

"What's going on, Sherlock?" He asks in a muted voice.

Sherlock turns towards him with a predatory gleam in his eye.

"Part of the experiment," his clipped words increase John's apprehension.

John's head throbs uncontrollably, and he begs for everything to stop.

John takes a deep breath out of habit to prepare to move. The doctor in him knows without a doubt that lying in one position will cause all sorts of systemic problems. The man, on the hand, is having a little trouble right now giving a damn.

Shifting his body to the right, he once again feels the pull at his abdomen and freaks out at what the hell could have happened.

He knows a surgical site when he feels one. _What the bloody hell? _

"Stay calm," he reminds himself, nearly choking on the words.

Tears of pain and frustration leak from his eyes without his permission. He sighs heavily and fights down the nausea that rears up yet again.

When will this end?

He just wants this all to end.

* * *

"Mrs. Hudson?" Sherlock bellows as he flies up the stairs to his flat.

He hears her uneven steps on the stairs and sighs.

"Hip acting up a bit, Mrs. Hudson?" He yells, sifting through the drawer in John's bedside table to liberate the Sig that he knows the former soldier houses there.

Sherlock shoves the gun into the pocket of his long navy coat and comes back to the sitting room to meet Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson.

"Mrs. Hudson, this is very important. John's in trouble. Your DNA was found," Sherlock relays as he searches the flat. Crossing the sitting room, he runs his hand along the edges of the skull frame hanging on the wall.

He gives a small shout of triumph as he collects a nicotine patch that he's found there. He smiles fondly knowing that he must bring his friend home to continue their game.

Mrs. Hudson looks absolutely devastated. "Now Sherlock, you know that…" she relates, tears shining in her eyes.

"Don't be absurd, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock states affectionately.

Mrs. Hudson places her right hand over her heart, "Oh, Sherlock. What are we going to do?"

"I'll figure it out, Mrs. Hudson," he reassures her, placing a gentle kiss on her cheek.

She reaches up to pat his face lightly.

"Everybody out!" Sherlock suddenly yells. "I must think. Lestrade, don't go far. Mrs. Hudson, tea."

She smiles fondly at the young man who's given her so much. He saved her from that wretched bastard that she had married and has been there for her as has John ever since.

Sherlock removes his coat and scarf placing them on the hook at the back of the door, which he has just closed behind them.

He lies down on the sofa and folds his hands together intertwining his long slender fingers.

He considers the information that he's obtained and accesses his mind palace.

_**Mrs. Hudson's DNA**_

_**Water with Salinity of 35 PSU's**_

_**That's 3.5% salinity**_

_**Hudson's DNA**_

_**Potassium Permanganate**_

_**Uses:**_

_**Water treatment**_

_**Oxidizing agent**_

_**Reagent for organic compound synthesis**_

_**Fire starter**_

_**Disinfectant**_

_**Oxidizing Agent**_

_**Oxidizing Agent**_

_**Agent**_

_**Aging**_

_**Ages items**_

_**Ages cloth**_

_**Cloth**_

Sherlock bolts up suddenly retrieving his mobile from his pocket. He taps in information about oxidizing agents and aging cloth. Potassium permanganate is used in distressing cloth.

"John? Amazing. It was a commercial during that crap telly show you made me watch. Jeans," Sherlock mumbles still fitting the puzzle pieces together.

_I've got to start deleting some of that before my brain rots through._

Sherlock's fingers fly on the mobile quickly accessing information that may be helpful.

_Jeans specifically. See if there is a Hudson brand. **Good**_

_Salinity of Hudson River 5-30 PSU **Discard**_

_Salinity of Hudson Bay 35 PSU **Excellent**_

_**Conclusion: Hudson is the main clue. **_

_Why Mrs. Hudson's DNA?_

_There must be a connection._

"Think…think!" Sherlock mutters as he spins around the room hoping to come up with something.

"Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock barks, his mind racing faster and faster with each passing second.

"Sherlock, what is it?" She asks as she steps into the flat.

"Hudson. The common denominator is Hudson. The only possible case I can connect to that name is yours. Did your departed husband have family?"

Mrs. Hudson nods her head while tapping her chin. "He had a younger brother, odd sort, but they were estranged, you know," she rambles.

"His name, Mrs. Hudson?" Sherlock orders with as much patience as he can muster.

"Gordon. Gordon Hudson," she replies finally.

"Lestrade," Sherlock screams, only to find that the DI is standing at the door. "Oh, excellent. I need all the information that you have on Gordon…"

"Already gettin' it," Lestrade interrupts the agitated detective.

* * *

Lestrade picks up his mobile and writes a few lines in his notebook before ringing off.

"Let's go," he commands, grabbing his coat and gesturing for Sherlock to do the same after he doses himself with that damned adrenaline again.

They speed down the stairs and hop into Lestrade's sedan, which takes off before they've even closed the doors.

Lestrade begins to update Sherlock with the information he's just gathered.

"It seems that Gordon Hudson was a doctor. Upon the execution of his brother, he went around the bend a bit and lost his medical license," Lestrade reports efficiently.

"He has the motive, means and opportunity to have committed this crime against John. His wife told me that he left her as well. She said that he's obsessed with the death of his brother, George," Lestrade relays, taking a turn a bit too fast, wheels screaming.

"Motive? John was not even at Baker Street when I solved this case," Sherlock questions, his confusion evident.

"It's obvious, Sherlock," Lestrade states matter of factly, then takes in Sherlock's chagrin. "He's taken John's life in exchange for his brother's life, which you did take away."

Sherlock pauses for a moment. "Sentiment?"

Lestrade's brows draw together, disappointing Sherlock, as John would have known exactly what he was asking.

"So, where?" Sherlock questions.

"The wife says he worked at St. Luke's Woodside Hospital. It closed last year and has been up for sale ever since. Sounds like a pretty good place to me to stash the good doctor," Lestrade finishes casting a sideways glance at the consulting detective.

"Promising, indeed," he replies, taking what he hopes is the last look at his "new" watch.

"How long?" Lestrade asks quietly.

"Just under 24 hours," Sherlock replies, his voice made soft by the distraction of what he imagines they will find.

* * *

John cries out suddenly at the burning sensation flaring in his abdomen at the surgical site.

"What the hell?" he gasps.

_Why is this happening to me?_

"Where am I? Where am I?" He screams out, his voice strained and tired, to Sherlock, who stands there next to his stretcher passively and allows this to happen to him.

He begins to thrash against his bindings, his confusion warring with the professional doctor that he once knew himself to be.

"Stop this now!" John shouts at himself, dispelling the Sherlock shadow that comes and goes at a whim.

"Calm the fuck down before you fuck yourself up even more," John demands of himself, then startles at the disproportionate amount of anger he is feeling.

He runs through the list of symptoms in his head as the Sherlock apparition appears once again.

_**Anxiety**_

He looks at his shaking hands and realizes that he's short of breath. CHECK.

_**Hearing voices**_

I've been yelling at my best friend who's not actually here. check.

_**Hallucinations **_

There's my best friend now. OBVIOUSLY.

_**Paranoia **_

I think my best friend is trying to kill me. This is a no brainer. Let's go with Check.

_**Disorientation**_

Where the fuck am I? Check.

_**Agitation**_

See previous answer. Check.

_**Abnormal behavior**_

I think it's safe to say yes here. Check.

"What were those symptoms for again?" John asks himself quietly, turning his thoughts inward.

"Bloody hell," he curses again as he solves the mystery.

"ICU Psychosis," he relates, under his breath. "Caused by pain, critical illness, medication side effects, infection or dehydration, any of which could be causing complications."

"Since I'm already unstable," he starts, trembling uncontrollably, "I would rip the whiskers off a kitten for some haloperidol."

John's shaking increases as he begins to come unglued. "Hold it together, John. Not much longer," he promises, not knowing if he even speaks the truth.

* * *

Sherlock and Lestrade have been searching St. Luke's Woodbridge for nearly two hours.

"John!" Lestrade bellows again.

"I believe that the room may be sound proof. Let's look at the former psychiatric ward; a locked down ward would be best," Sherlock reasons as he slides to a stop in front of the hospital map on the wall.

"Sixth floor," Lestrade finds, pointing it out with his index finger.

Sherlock takes off for the door marked stairs and races as fast as humanly possible to the sixth floor.

He flings open the heavy door when he reaches the appropriate floor and takes off in one direction as Lestrade searches the other.

"Sherlock!" Lestrade shouts out, causing Sherlock to break out into a run and skid to a stop in front of the door where Lestrade stands.

"It's locked with a digital lock that seems to be working. Figured it was a good bet John was here," Lestrade informs the brash consulting detective.

Sherlock looks over the digital lock then pries the casing from the wall.

Lestrade shoots him an odd look and Sherlock shrugs.

"John taught me. Said I wouldn't always have time to be clever," Sherlock admits, ducking his head back to look at the wires once again.

He splices the correct wires together completing the circuit, and the door slides open. He then destroys the panel to keep the door in the open position.

Looking into the artificially lit room, he sees a lone stretcher in the center of the room and strides forcefully to the bedside.

"John?" Sherlock whispers, grasping the pale man's hand.

John's eyes open and seem to look past him. His vision is unfocussed, and Sherlock instantly begins to worry.

"John!" He speaks more urgently raising his volume a bit.

"Not real. 'Lucination," John mumbles distractedly, turning his face away, his eyes falling closed once again.

"No, John. I am real. I promise. We've found you," Sherlock reassures John.

Lestrade walks to the stretcher on John's other side, "LAS is on the way as are the metropolitan police. I also put out a wanted on warrant for Gordon Hudson."

John opens his eyes suddenly as he recognizes Lestrade's voice.

"Lestrade?" John's broken voice asks, his blue eyes seeking out the older Detective Inspector's.

"Right here, John," Lestrade assures.

John focuses his eyes on the opposite side of the bed. "Sh'lock," he slurs, smiling slightly and fighting to keep his eyes open.

"Yes," Sherlock answers definitively, starting to remove the restraints from his friend's raw wrists, his body tensing with absolute fury at the condition of them.

The London Ambulance Service arrives hauling equipment but no stretcher as they've been apprised of the situation.

"Stop whatever you're doing! We need to get in there," the one with the name tag reading Terry barks.

Sherlock halts and moves to the head of the bed placing his trembling fingers in benediction on John's sweating forehead. "I'm still here, John. He's a kidnap victim. Be careful with him," Sherlock warns, his tone brokering no argument.

"Do we know how long he's been here?" The female attendant, Christine, asks looking directly at DI Lestrade.

"Our best guess is that he's been here for," Sherlock begins, glancing at the timer on his wrist, "a little over 50 hours."

Christine nods in sympathy. "John, can you hear me?" She asks quietly. "I need to see what's going on with these IV lines."

"We didn't remove anything for fear of doing any damage," Lestrade assures the attendants before stepping further away.

"Stay with us, John," Sherlock whispers when John's eyes begin to close once again.

The attendants move quickly to stabilize his condition, and Christine performs a vitals check.

"Vitals stable," she reports, a bit surprised considering the circumstances.

"Okay, thanks. Call this in," Terry orders Christine before turning back to the IV pump on his side of the stretcher and checking the medications.

"Jesus! I've got potassium chloride, Christine. Check your lines. Now!" Terry curses as he clamps off the line filled with poison and hangs a new bag with saline. "This drug causes cardiac arrest. It's usually used executions. Just to be safe, we're going to remove all the fluid bags and start him on new ones. The saline bags were empty anyway. We can use the existing cannulas since they are already in place."

Christine clamps off a line on her side and informs her partner quietly, "I've got barbiturate with pancuronium bromide over here. Whoever did this set him up to be executed."

Terry examines the central line, "This one's clear. I'm going to run nutrients and a strong antibiotic through the central line. That'll pump it through his body faster."

Terry notices a small blood stain on the left side of the gown.

"John, are you wounded?" He asks, lifting up the side of the gown slightly.

"No," he whispers. "He operated on me. Not sure what he did but felt the pull of the stitches."

"He's a doctor," Sherlock informs the attendants in a respectful whisper.

Terry gently palpates the area around the surgical site causing John to groan in pain. Sherlock's eyes narrow, and his lips pull back in a furious scowl. He calms only when John pushes his head slightly into Sherlock's fingers.

"There's something here under the skin," Terry announces, trading concerned looks with his partner. "I think it may be a pump, but I got no idea what's in it. Let's rolls him slightly toward you."

They roll John on the count of three where Terry finds additional sutures on the left side of John's back at the level of his kidneys. The surgical site is smaller than on the abdomen, but it confirms his suspicions.

"We need to get him to hospital, right now," Terry demands, already stowing his gear on the bottom of the stretcher.

They unlock the wheels of the stretcher and begin racing down the corridor hoping that the elevator in this place still works.

"I'm here, John," Sherlock, running alongside the stretcher, reassures John when he moans.

* * *

Sherlock paces relentlessly the length of the waiting room floor. It has been several hours since they rescued John from hell.

Lestrade sits in a chair nearby barking orders into his mobile before he finally quiets, listens for a moment, and rings off.

"They found Gordon Hudson," Lestrade announces resulting in Sherlock tensing up and making for the door. Lestrade catches up to him, "Stop, Sherlock! He's dead. He's already dead."

Sherlock freezes, his eyes scanning Lestrade for the merest hint of deception. There is none.

"How?" Sherlock questions the older Detective Inspector.

"He dosed himself with the potassium chloride. He never left the hospital. After…what he did to John, he took the injection and died. I asked the constables to canvas the building, and they found him in the last room on the same floor where we found John," Lestrade informs him quietly.

Sherlock scowls at the news. "Much too good for him," he complains disdainfully.

"That it is," Lestrade agrees, just as a doctor enters the room.

"Are you here for John Watson?" the doctor asks Sherlock and Lestrade.

"Dr. John Watson," Sherlock corrects earning a glare from Lestrade.

"Ah, yes. Sorry. I'm Dr. Wescott," the doctor amends noting that the man before him seems very dangerous.

"Yes. How is he?" Lestrade inquires, raising his right hand to shake the doctor's.

"He's stable and actually doing very well. We were able to remove the drug pump along with its catheter without any spinal fluid leakage. He'll be sore for a while, but it should heal up just fine. We've been flushing his system with antibiotics and saline, so he should be able to go home tomorrow if he can manage food and his outputs are within normal limits," Dr. Wescott relays optimistically.

"Excellent. Where is he?" Sherlock asks, looking over the doctor's shoulder.

"Well, he's in recovery right now," the doctor informs the two men before him.

"Very well," Sherlock walks past the doctor on his way to recovery when the doctor moves to stop him.

"Let him go, Dr. Wescott. His best friend was kidnapped by a rogue doctor and was missing for over two days," Lestrade diverts the doctor skillfully.

* * *

Sherlock pauses in the door of the recovery room where John's pale body rests against white sheets.

He quietly enters the room and pulls a chair next to his friend's bed to wait for him to awaken.

Drawing his feet up onto the chair, he clasps John's cool hand in his own warmer one. His head drops gratefully to his knees as tears prick the back of his eyes. He can feel his throat close with the overwhelming emotion to which he is unaccustomed.

After an hour, the staff moves John to a private room (Thank you, Mycroft.) where Sherlock resumes his former position.

Things can almost be "normal" again. John will be fine and is by his side as he is meant to be, but Sherlock requires one more thing before he can finally rest.

Nurses have come in and out to check on his flatmate and best friend. Doctor Wescott stopped by once to double check his progress. Bloody Lestrade stopped in with another nurse and Dr. Wescott again to examine Sherlock and draw blood after over forty-eight hours and four doses of adrenaline.

He complains quietly not wanting to disturb John.

It is several hours later when he finally receives the coveted last requisite for his limited sanity.

John's eyes flutter open, and he squeezes Sherlock's long fingers.

"Sh'lock," he attempts, his mouth filled with cotton.

Sherlock's feet drop to the floor, and he stands at the bedside.

"John," Sherlock says with a small knowing smile.

"You okay?" John asks hesitantly checking over Sherlock with medical precision.

"I am now," Sherlock whispers, patting John's hand gently, as the man nods once and closes his eyes to rest.

**The End**


End file.
